do with hate, but more with love: Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyes. This precious book of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.